Wild Things

I’ve heard of horses—mustangs mostly—who run wild across Nevada’s
bleak terrain. (They kind of remind me of Uncle Bill, who ran wild, too, last
summer, until Aunt Shirley caught up with him at the border). Horses know
no borders, don’t allow limits, except those imposed by a weariness of
bone and tendon that won’t be ignored. They’re wild things, those
horses (and wiser than Uncle Bill). Sometimes I can hear their thunder a
state or two away. Sometimes, just at twilight, I can see their shadows on
the far hills, and if I turn just so, catch a whiff of something ripe in the
wind, something more than horse. (Bill looks more than pensive these days,
absently slapping at gadflies). I wonder how far Nevada’s border is, and
how, once gone, one would ever get back. At twilight, a long, low
whinny floats across the mulberry sky.